


Am I Ever Going to See Your Face Again? (No Way, Get Fucked, Fuck Off!)

by 221b_hound



Series: Guitar Man [97]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Do not fuck with the Holmes family, Espionage, Gen, Murder, Mutilation, Mycroft is terrifying, Protective Parents, Revenge, Sally is also terrifying, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 11:18:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1742843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marc Favreau made a terrible error of judgement when he sent Tom Leung to kill Sally Donovan and kidnap Ford Holmes. Just how terrible an error he is about to learn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Am I Ever Going to See Your Face Again? (No Way, Get Fucked, Fuck Off!)

**Author's Note:**

> This is the follow-up to [Just Shop With Somebody Tough](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1712903) which some people asked for. That story was relatively fluffy. This one is pretty grim.
> 
> The song title is from The Angels' 'Am I Ever Going to See Your Face Again?', an Australian classic from the 1980s. The part in brackets isn't in the song proper, but it's what the audience used to call back to the band in their live gigs.
> 
> [This is the song, and the audience callback, live ](http://youtu.be/i_py6WbMV1k)
> 
>  
> 
> Their lead singer, Doc Neeson, passed away yesterday, and so this story title is in his honour. \m/ RIP Doc!

Marc Favreau regarded the Australian with an unfavourable eye. The Australian, nursing a fractured wrist, a broken nose, numerous sundry contusions and a fervent wish that he’d pursued a career in auto repairs like his mother wanted, glowered back.

"What happened to you, Leung?" Favreau asked, both curious and contemptuous.

"Accident," grumbled Leung.

Favreau wasn't really interested enough to pursue the matter. Instead, he nodded at the frightened woman in jeans and a torn shirt who stood practically panting in animal terror at Tom Leung's side. "I said kill the mother and bring the brat. Are you deficient in the brain?" Favreau's disparaging glare slid off the black woman and back to the hired help.

"The kid buggered off like a buttered pig before I could grab him," said Leung resentfully, "She was easier."

"Please," said Sally Donovan with a wavering voice, "Don't hurt me."

"Can't promise you that, sweetheart," said Favreau in an oddly trans-continental accent, though traces of the original French were audible to those with a musical ear. Not Sally, as it happened, but her husband would certainly have noticed.

"My husband..."

"Will want assurances you're alive while we negotiate," said Favreau, "You have ten fingers, ten toes, to send him fresh daily. I'm sure you'll still have most of them before he capitulates."

"Please. I don't understand..."

"Don't try," Favreau advised her.

"Mike is a civil servant. That's all. Just a civil servant." Her tone was increasingly hysterical. "How could he possibly...?"

"Mycroft Holmes is a pestilence," snarled Favreau, "And a positive hindrance to my organisation's affairs. He has proven immune to negotiation, bribery, blackmail. My superiors have promised much to anyone who can remove him as an obstacle. I thought it time to take a more direct approach to the issue."

Favreau handed a pair of thick pruning shears to Leung. "Start with the right index finger," he said, "I might as well show I mean business."

Leung stared at the shears, at the cringing woman and back at his boss. "No."

" _No?"_

"Kidnapping kids, roughing up the help, a clean shot to the head, that's all fine, mate, but I'm not going to chop up some clueless Knightsbridge housewife for you to post bits home. You want to mutilate some kid's mum, you do it yourself." He shoved the shears back into Favreau's hands with a shudder.

A snort of derisive laughter met this defiance. "I had no idea you had standards, Leung," sneered Favreau, "All right then..." He reached out to grab the terrified woman's hand.

He never really was sure how he ended up on the floor, his face in the carpet, with the suddenly stone-cold-calm black woman pinning him down, one foot planted on his arse, one knee digging into the small of his back, the other between his shoulder blades. The pruning shears were now pressed against the spasming nerve under his ear. He tried to throw her off but ended up shrieking in pain from the compressed nerve and the new cut the shears made in his skin.

"Don't. Move."

He struggled again. This time the shriek was a response to the shears clipping a nasty cut into his ear, straight through cartilege.

"You meant to cut my son's fingers off and send them to his father,” Sally Donovan said in a voice that could cut diamond, “One more move, and you'll lose an ear.  Move after that, you lose your balls. Do I make myself clear?"

Favreau bucked, screamed and lay there, panting in shock and despair. With his cheek crushed into the carpet, he could see the chunk of ear that lay on the ground next to him. He could certainly feel the blood pouring down his face and neck.

"Clear now, you bastard?"

"Yes," he whimpered, and he tried so hard not to move that he had trouble breathing.

He heard the footsteps first, then saw the feet. Expensive Italian leather shoes. The trouser cuffs of a very fine suit. The ferrule of an umbrella.

"Monsieur Favreau," said a measured voice above him, "I see you've met my wife, Sally. It appears you failed to obey her directives. Only once, however, which is wise. She is usually more subtle in her fieldwork, but in this instance you threatened our son. That is not a mistake you will repeat."

Favreau whimpered some more.

"Please note that if any such threat, even the hint of one, comes to my attention again, I will take the matter up with you first, before dealing with any new players. I don’t care whether or not you had any hand in such a plot. I will cut off every extremity you have, and _feed them to you_."

“Please, I…”

“Shut up,” said Sally, the shears pressing into his skin again, “You shut up until you’re told to talk. You sent this moron to _kill_ me, you wanted to harm our beautiful little boy, cut his little fingers off, god knows _what else_ , and if you talk again _I will cut your tongue out_ , and I will cheerfully watch Mycroft slice it into small easy-to-swallow pieces and _make you swallow it_. I don’t usually go for brute force over persuasion, but for you I will make an exception. Nod if you believe me.”

Favreau nodded. Vehemently.

Mycroft made a slight gesture and two men stepped out of the shadows.

Tom Leung crouched in front of his former boss. “Mr Holmes wanted me to explain this bit to you,” he said, with a worried glance up at the urbane man smiling terrifyingly down at him. “These men are going to give you an implant. They put one in me yesterday after they caught me.” Leung wouldn’t even look at Sally Donovan, because if anything, she was even more frightening than her husband.

Mycroft’s two men took scissors and cut a gash in Favreau’s trousers and tugged up the leg of his underpants. Favreau squealed in terror but was too frightened to move, except for his bollocks, which drew up against his body in a completely involuntary act of protection. He felt something cold press up between his legs, against the inside of his buttocks.

“It’s going to hurt like a motherfucker,” said Leung with some sympathy.

There was a hiss of pneumatic compression, and Favreau yelled in pain as a tiny pellet was injected into his pelvic cradle, into the meat of his gluteus maximus but close to the groin.

“It’s a tracking device and transmitter,” said Leung, “I’ve got one too. And…” Leung shuddered, “It contains a small explosive charge. It can be detonated from a range of over a hundred kilometres with a specific radio frequency so… so Mr Holmes suggests we be careful around walkie talkies and stuff.”

Favreay blinked tears of pain from his eyes as he regarded Leung in horror.

“It’s not a big charge. Like. It won’t blow us in half or anything. But it’ll probably blow our dicks off before it ruptures the main blood vessel.”

Favreau panted but, mindful of the enraged Mrs Holmes and her pruning shears, said not a word.

“Is that right, Mr Holmes?” Leung asked, looking up at the man.

“Very good, Mr Leung. And now.” Mycroft used the tip of his umbrella against Favreau’s chin to make Favreau look up at him. “Apart from safeguarding my son from any further plots of this kind, you will report to me on all your superiors’ activities. You will tell me everything you know, everything you suspect. Mr Leung here will be doing likewise, so I will be cross-referencing your reports.”

Mycroft Holmes smiled, and Favreau nearly wet himself.

“Tell him you understand,” said Sally Donovan.

“I…I…I… yes, I un…understand.”

“Do not for a moment fancy you have any escape but death,” said Mr Holmes flatly, “You will be my eyes, and you will protect my son as if he were your own blood.”

“Y-y-yes.”

“Mr Leung - you are clear on your orders?”

Leugn nodded sharply. “Sir.”

“Let Monsieur Favreau know the protocol for reporting.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And report to me this evening.”

“Yes, sir.”

And then Mycroft Holmes, Sally Donovan and the two field agents withdrew and vanished into the city.

Leung looked down on Favreau, lying on the floor, bleeding into the carpet, and shook his head. “You’re a fucking dickhead,” Leung said, “How come you didn’t know his missus was an agent? ‘Shoot the housewife, kidnap the kid’, you said, like it was going to be easy. It didn’t occur to you that they didn’t have a security detail because they didn’t bloody need one?”

Favreau rolled onto his back and felt gingerly around his crotch, as though to assure himself that his bollocks and penis were still attached, although his right ear wasn’t. He groped on the carpet to find the ear. He looked at it forlornly.

“Their kid is something else,” said Leung, watching him, “A real bright spark. A real chatterbox too. I didn’t know you meant to cut his fingers off. You know something, Favreau? I’m a bastard, but you’re a cunt.”

Favreau nursed his ear in one hand, his aching and blood spotted crotch in the other, and didn’t have the energy to argue.

In the end, Favreau needed help to get to his feet. He cleaned up as best he could and bandaged his ear. He had a meeting with his boss in the back of a dockside warehouse - no longer with a solution to the Holmes Problem on a platter - and he’d have to think how to explain his state.

He needn’t have bothered. His boss, Ivan Santos, was under the impression that Favreau had been careless with some sensitive information and was not much interested in anything he had to say.

Santos was under this impression because Mycroft Holmes had, via Tom Leung and some carefully engineered events and interpretations in the last twelve hours, ensured that this impression had been left.

“You are a liability, Favreau,” said Santos darkly, “You are a problem. I do not like problems. I like problems to disappear. Mr Leung.”

Tom Leung stood tall and nodded. “Yes, Mr Santos?”

“You have been injured due to Favreau’s carelessness.”

“Better intel would have helped, sure,” said Leung carefully.

“A vacancy has just come up in the organisation,” said Santos, “If you would care to fill it.”

“Happy to,” said Leung.

“Excellent. Get rid of my problem, will you?”

Leung blinked. “Right this minute? Right here, you mean?”

“I would like a demonstration of your competence,” said Santos.

“Oh. Well. Sure.”

So Leung pulled out his gun and shot Favreau three times in the chest.

“Make him disappear, now,” said Santos.

“No probs,” said Leung.

Santos left the warehouse quietly. Leung fetched a tarpaulin from the pile against the wall, rolled up the body of his dead former boss along with some bricks, and dragged the lot to the edge of the polluted river, where he shoved it in.

He went to his car and drove away, making his phone call as he did. The call was answered, but no-one spoke.

“That happened just like you said,” he reported to the silence, “Favreau’s out of the picture - well, he's in the river, if you want to blow him up in half an hour when I'm well out of the way - and I’m in.”

"Good." Then the line disconnected.

When he got back to his current bolt hole, Tom Leung logged onto Amazon and found some books on DIY car repairs.

Perhaps, if he got out of this mess alive, Mr Holmes would let him go, and he could get back to Brisbane and become a car mechanic: making his mum proud, and not getting his bollocks blown off by the angriest parents in the entire universe.


End file.
